Quid Pro Quo
by Flint and Feather
Summary: Vincent takes a lone rebellious night time tour of the city to escape his smothering life in the Tunnels. But his time out is cut short when he's forced to return home to cope with injury.


**A/N: A one-shot indulgence...Vincent needs a night out of lone rebellion against his smothering life in the Tunnels. He meets with a bit of trouble and a new understanding with Father...All named characters are owned solely by originator Ron Koslow...Please read and review? Also, many thanks to reviewers of my previous stories.**

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Giving no greeting as he hurriedly passed him by, Vincent escaped Father's concerned eyes as he swept aside the edge of the tapestry covering his doorway, and disappeared behind its concealment into his chamber. As quickly as his cane could take him, Father closed the short distance to just outside his son's room and halted there, self-consciously clearing his throat.

"Vincent, is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing, Dr. Wells." Vincent's soft voice had taken on an abrupt edge as he inexplicably addressed Father by his formal title.

"Then – I-I'll leave you, Son," the old man stammered, not at all comforted by Vincent's unaccustomed reply.

Try as he might, Father was unable to rest. Vincent had given him no prior reason for going Above, though the man then on watch had reported his exit back to him. Whatever had triggered Vincent's irritability worried Father, as did any major change in his temperament. Father feared a regression, a surrender to the inner darkness of his adoptive son's psyche. Such a dread mystery as that could be, held vigil over Father's mind.

**...**

Why he suddenly felt so plagued at being followed and his every move watched and questioned by Father, Vincent had no easy explanation, nor did he then give it any weight. Father was one of many who constantly asked after him, should he be seen to do no more than lower his eyes for more than a heartbeat, or appear to be too deep in thought. Other instances seemed too many to count.

This, he wished to attend to on his own, without being admonished and lectured. True, he'd made a night's escape of rebellion to the city outside and hoped to return to the solitude of his chamber without being seen. The hour was so late that Father should have been asleep. His spirit chafed at having to return at all. A slight enough miscalculation on his part, a moment of unavoidable haste as he'd been forced to hide from boisterous passersby, had left him with an injury beneath a slash in his jacket. Vincent recounted the friction of the brick wall at his back as he forced his body into the narrow space behind a lidless industrial dumpster. He tightly held his silence when he felt a ragged point of iron slice across his upper chest, ducked his head out of sight and froze there until he was again alone in the alleyway. Quietly then, he struggled painfully to free himself from the tight space, both hands gripping the jagged top edge of the dumpster as he pressed sideways into the clear.

He sprinted back home to the tunnels, and could not avoid the notice of the friend on night watch. The man made friendly inquiry into his outdoor activities and whereabouts as expected, but Vincent gave him merely a pleasant nod and successfully made his lone way first to the hospital chamber to collect the supplies he needed. Wanting no solicitous attention, Vincent concealed all beneath his cloak and proceeded at a stealthy stride towards his own room.

The sentinel of Father – Vincent wanted only to dismiss him, too. As he set down a brown bottle and white wrapped packages on his table, he gave thought to another slight possibility. Father would hopefully know better than to call upon Catherine at this time of night. He dropped his cloak and took in hand a fuelled lamp and matches. Before a large mirror, he placed the lamp on an upper shelf, lit the canvas wick and turned up the flame. Staring at his dishevelled reflection, he shook down the shoulders of his jacket and threw aside the bloodied garment. He next worked the lacing loose at the front of his shirt until, seized with a burst of impatience, he ripped the fabric violently apart and tore the ruin from his body. Naked to the waist, he calmly regarded his damage. The gash across his tautly muscled pectoral lay open and throbbing, freshly dripping blood from his late explosive exertion. Tonight's badge of stolen freedom – one that would mark him forever. He shoved back the sides of his long mane and stooped over a basin to soak a compress and splash his hands with disinfectant. His cleft lip lifted to bare his perfect fangs as he pressed the stinging liquid deeply into the wound and scoured through his raw flesh until every flake of rust was cleaned out. His breath shuddered slightly as he studied the angry looking slash under the damp golden down of his chest.

He turned to pick up a syringe he'd prepared and stabbed the needle into his upper arm. With the tetanus injection done, Vincent opened a sterile package and laid out the implements for the next operation. His working light was bright enough, and he had the advantage of being able to use both hands. He cut hairs away from the wound's ragged edges and set himself to continue. He knew what to do, but performing this on himself was an untried skill. Picking up a suturing needle, he used the tips of his claws to pinch together the edges of his torn flesh and drove the curved needle through. With a holder, he drew it out and tied several square knots to finish the first stitch. Through a haze of pain, he scissored off the end. Still, he was all present, his teeth clenched as he made the needle point bite in again. His eyes, focused down on the motions of his fingers, could close after the needle had been correctly inserted, and he shook his head to clear the cloud from his deep blue. As he went on across the length of the wound, his actions became mechanical, each sharp stab nothing more than a count toward the end.

Vincent blocked an interfering distraction – Catherine's distress for him, pleading through their bond. He couldn't answer now. Even Father had allowed him this uninterrupted self-absorption, no matter that it was so highly unpleasant. He raised his face again to the mirror, holding himself straight, and discerned that his efforts were well spaced and strong, but his lack of technique would result in an extended rope-like scar. Again, no matter. He swabbed it with iodine and opened envelopes of bandages.

**...**

Father, looking careworn and tired at his desk, lifted his head at the sound of an approach as Vincent walked up to his side. The elder braced one hand on the wood surface and pressed the end of his cane to the floor.

"Father, you need not stand."

"Have you slept, Vincent?" Father asked, with a worriedly appraising frown. "You have a rather strained appearance this morning."

"And you," his son replied, kindly. "No, I haven't slept. I was enjoying a private sulk."

Father studied Vincent quizzically. "And, what am I to understand?"

"First, I apologize, as I'm the reason for your lack of sleep. Second, please imagine what it's like to be treated perpetually as a child who needs constant oversight."

Father sat back in his chair, considering thoughtfully. "I do suppose that I've never stopped doing that to you. But you called me Dr. Wells!"

"A very small, yet very respectful tantrum. Do you object?"

"Hardly, since you've explained. I will try to reign in my overprotective instincts for my grown son, if you'll in turn have a care for my concerns."

"In three days," Vincent smiled, "I will want to see you in your capacity of physician."

"Of – of course. But why? And where are you going, now? You've had no sleep-"

Vincent interrupted the outpouring of questions with a raised hand and warm gaze.

"I go now to Catherine, Father, to set her mind at ease. Don't wait up."


End file.
